


Kiss from a Rose

by Shiraume



Category: Prince of Tennis (TV), Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Breathplay, But Implied Only, Fucked Up Characters, Fucked Up Relationships, I REGRET NOTHING, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Purple Prose, Rough Sex, These Vampires Do NOT Sparkle TYVM, Threesome - M/M/M, Underage Sex, Violence, What? It's a vampire AU, dark themes, except not really, gothic horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiraume/pseuds/Shiraume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A thousand years' worth of shades, through the lives of six different people.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(Please heed the rating, the warnings in the notes, and the pairings in case any of those isn't your cup of tea.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fuji Syuusuke

**Author's Note:**

> A _Prince of Tennis_ fanfiction in a series of six short ficlets (1,000~1,500 words per ficlet). Vampire AU, angst, romance, horror. R/NC-17. Fuji/Tezuka, Yukimura/Fuji/Sanada, Fuji/Yuuta, Fuji/Ryoma. WARNING: Sort-of-incest, violence, dark themes, adult situations. Also, these vampires don't sparkle, thank you very much.
> 
> Originally written in 2005, and set entirely to Seal's "Kiss from a Rose" which...probably ought to constitute a warning by itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First up: Fuji, in 1,000 words.

****

**Kiss from a Rose: Fuji Syuusuke**

[May 2005 :: Posted April 2013]

_...And if I should fall along the way  
I've been kissed by a rose on the grey._

 

One thousand years.

One thousand years weren't enough to erase the broken glass of betrayal he saw in Yukimura's eyes.

"How could you?" Yukimura had whispered to him, his voice low and harsh, cradling the human – now no longer human – in his arms. It was the first time Fuji believed Yukimura hated him. More than hated him. Loathed Fuji so much that revenge was not even considered, the passion of his fury and hate drowning out everything else, even the need to avenge his grievance. In the end, Yukimura chose the most perfect punishment for his betrayal: he did nothing.

And the irony was that Yukimura likely did not intend to punish him in any way. Had never intended that.

When he turned Yuuta, one of his own kin, it had finally hit him. The bond of turning had taken him by surprise so much that he withdrew from everything, including his own childe. That day, he found out the hard way how a true blood-bond with a childe could alter a vampire forever. How it bound a sire to his childe, heart and soul, for all eternity. It was then he understood what his betrayal might have felt like to Yukimura, a treachery from a childe most deeply bonded to him. Along with his newfound understanding, guilt forced him back to Yuuta's side every so often, to check on him, but the same guilt forced his eyes away each time, unable to face what he had done. Yukimura was less... _human_ , for a lack of better term, than Fuji had ever been. He was aware Yukimura never looked at him the way he looked at Yuuta, but a childe was a childe: an inescapable reminder of his sins, the consequence of his choices, a creation he would always be responsible for. An eternity wouldn't give him time enough to run from that.

A century later, in a remote cloister in Europe, Fuji sensed a thread of inevitability when he first met Tezuka. Tezuka, a demon-hunter who was neither a human nor a demon, one whom an accident of fate had granted indefinite lifespan, who possessed power so like the hell-spawns he hunted. Fuji, by then a vampire of many, many centuries, was more powerful than Tezuka, but Tezuka's power nonetheless took him by surprise. Not the chill of a demon's power, that; Tezuka burned through his vampiric senses like a drop of sun in the darkness. The hot blaze called to him, and Fuji felt a thrill he never felt before or since. For a small eternity he gazed at Tezuka across the rows of stone crosses, fragrant roses over the graves perfuming the air. When Tezuka suddenly lunged, he grabbed Tezuka's left hand almost like an afterthought before it thrust home to his heart, halting the cold, cold iron a scant inch from his skin. Fuji leaned closer to look into those eyes, fearless and dangerous still even in the grip of imminent death, and wanted as he had never wanted before. So instead of taking him there and then or killing him, Fuji spared the hunter for a modified game of tag, chasing and being chased, with stakes both uncertain and dangerously high. If the intervening years also added the weight of debts and mutual aids and not-quite bond to those stakes, neither of them was willing to put a name to what lay in between. 

Ryoma was something else altogether. A toy that reveled in being one, a human who raced towards the coming storm precisely because he knew the danger. His interest in Ryoma wasn't a surprise, but that his prey knowingly pushed him in turn both amused him and exasperated him. Each time they met, each time Fuji embraced Ryoma, Fuji was never sure if the boy would leave his arms alive that night, to play their game again next time. What perhaps surprised him was that there continued to be a next time. Time and time again.

Fuji arched into the harsh press of Yukimura inside him. Their need for each other was not addictive, as his irresistible attraction to Tezuka was, or recreational, like his games with Ryoma were. It was a simple need which both acknowledged and accepted. Like their existence, like their need for blood, their mutual need was a facet of their shared life, shadowed and flawed as it was. The heat that raked through his body, balanced just enough by the pang of Yukimura's teeth on his throat, was something he couldn't imagine doing without. Fuji looked up, watching Yukimura as he surged, suspended in his own pleasure, before sinking down to Fuji as gracefully as the nightfall. And Fuji received Yukimura in his arms, just like he had always done since the fateful night that bound him to this eternal existence, to Yukimura.

His preternatural hearing picked up a sound just outside their door. He extended a tendril of his thought, caressing and inviting. His overture was met with something akin to exasperation, which masked a hidden wariness of jealousy. Masked well, but not perfectly. Fuji threaded his fingers through Yukimura's hair, reaching into Yukimura's mind. It was easy to do when they were connected like this, more intimately than by their flesh alone. Yukimura's thoughts flowed against his, fluid yet heavy, and finally, the door opened and Sanada entered.

 _Are you jealous?_ was the thought Fuji sent Sanada's way, clear as spoken words. It was almost a ritual, each time they found each other like this, Yukimura tangled in Fuji's embrace and Sanada coming to them. And as usual, Sanada merely snorted. At times, Fuji wondered who he was addressing the question to, and about whom. The question, and the answer if there ever was one, was even less clear when he pressed into Sanada, Yukimura still wrapped around them both. When the pleasure stole his thoughts and his breath, the question, too, became silent, like the stillness of the night around them.

And Fuji slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd avoided posting this forever because...well, subject content. But recently someone asked to see it, and I thought, why the hell not? So I slapped on some edits and here we are.
> 
> I don't know if I'll still respect myself in the morning. But for now, I REGRET NOTHING. ;)


	2. Tezuka Kunimitsu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second one: Tezuka, in 1,292 words! Same warnings apply as before.

****

**Kiss from a Rose: Tezuka Kunimitsu ******

[May 2005 :: Posted April 2013]

_You remain, my power, my pleasure, my pain  
To me you're like a growing addiction that I can't deny._

 

It was impossible to miss Fuji even in the pitch darkness of the graveyard. Fuji's power radiated outward, filtered through iron restraint as it was, burning like an icy beacon in the night. This was the most powerful vampire he had encountered, the oldest.

If he was honest to himself, Tezuka could admit that he had sorely underestimated the power of Fuji's eyes. When he first looked into those blue eyes speckled with the unnatural gold of the vampire kind, Tezuka, despite not believing in gods or destiny, felt what he could only describe as a meeting with his fate. And he knew then that this would be the most dangerous being he would ever face in his life. That if he lost to this creature, he would lose all and everything that he was.

Surely it was some higher force he never believed in that guided his hand that night: so certain, so sure, in utter contrast to the frozen stillness of his mind. Tezuka had moved faster and surer than he ever had in his long life as a demon hunter. Yet Fuji's right hand firmly grasped his left wrist, easily halting the iron stake scant centimeters from his heart, in a touch so cold it burned. The storm in those blue, blue eyes was so surprising that Tezuka froze, and the rational part of his mind truly believed it was over when Fuji leaned closer. That certainty somehow calmed him, holding him perfectly still. The battle had been fought and lost. His life was forfeit.

And he blinked in surprise as Fuji disappeared, dissolved into the darkness surrounding them. The next time he saw Fuji, he challenged Fuji again, this time a battle of magic as well as a physical combat, and lost. "You'll need to take me a little more seriously," Fuji whispered to him before disappearing. Fuji's cool lips brushed against the side of his neck with the same burning touch and Tezuka had to suppress a shiver, understanding at last the absolute seductive charm the vampire kind wielded over humans. The third time they found each other, they were in the middle of a vast wilderness far from civilization. And Tezuka let loose for the first time and called on all of the power he'd kept bound so tightly under control for so long. The freedom of letting go, that exhilarating rush as raw power swelled and flowed inside him, and feeling Fuji's power match his, was a kind of ecstasy that he could not even begin to understand, let alone explain, and he thought Fuji looked almost as shaken as he was near the end. Their fight had left the entire area within five-mile radius devastated, and it was Fuji who was left standing, obviously still with enough strength left to move. Fuji walked over to where he sat, exhausted and drained in more than just a physical sense, and trailed fingers lightly over his cheek in a touch that might have been more than gentle, might even have been tender. Fuji's fingers were warm for once, and the light in Fuji's face made him look almost alive. And Tezuka would have shuddered in an impossible mixture of terror and anticipation, had he been able to move. But Fuji merely gave him a strange smile before disappearing without a word.

Through the years, Tezuka met Fuji over and over again. Although neither of them had been specifically looking for the other, each encounter brought a sense of expectation and of being expected. Being a long-lived vampire seemed to attract as many enemies as being a demon hunter did. Nevertheless, several times, Fuji helped him and even saved his life once, and Tezuka's sense of honor compelled him to return the favor. And their strange ties of not quite enmity or camaraderie persisted, growing stronger each time they met. Tezuka did not understand why Fuji felt the need to keep him alive, and he must, since Fuji had already had several chances to kill him or simply leave him to die. He knew he was growing stronger as time passed, becoming more of a threat to Fuji, and surely Fuji knew it also. If all this was for amusement, it was an amusement that had stakes much, much higher than their lives.

It was eight score years or more after he first met Fuji that he learned Fuji was actually a companion to another vampire, one older and even more powerful: Yukimura. If Fuji was calm, Yukimura was impossibly serene, observing everything and nothing at once. For all the attention Yukimura paid him, Tezuka might as well have been a speckle of dust floating in the air. Yukimura's dark eyes were severe and kind and ageless, and the power of his presence could almost convince Tezuka that this being was indeed beyond the laws and mores of the mortal realm but belonged to a more ancient, purer kind of justice. But only until he noticed Fuji, who looked strangely younger at Yukimura's side, looking more like the human he must had been once. Or maybe it was that Fuji was standing next to Yukimura, who was too beautiful, too _perfect_ , that there wasn't a shred of humanity left, if there ever had been. Then, a colder and more logical side of his mind whispered, with chilling reason mercilessly untempered by poetry, that vampires were notoriously territorial, and would never travel in company unless related by blood. Vampiric blood, flowing from a sire to a childe.

He charged before his mind consciously thought to attack. Fuji’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second in naked horror that nearly brought him up short, and that instant was all Fuji needed. Tezuka struggled in Fuji's grip unthinkingly for a moment, then froze, realizing Yukimura, who never once stirred, was now staring at him. Tezuka felt Fuji's hands spasm around his, and thought for one dizzy moment that Yukimura probably would have had less trouble crushing an ant under his heel stopping Tezuka himself. Fuji didn't need to protect Yukimura, had never once even looked in Yukimura's way since the moment Tezuka moved.

The sudden surge of anger startled him. But it was a directionless thing, uncertain of its target, and he barely reacted when Fuji left with Yukimura, although he felt Yukimura's eyes on him long after the ancient vampire disappeared.

Tezuka was absolutely certain that Yukimura deliberately let him watch them in bed, not long after their first meeting. Allowed him to see Fuji in the kind of wild abandon he had only ever seen in that one memorable battle between them. And the picture of Fuji, head thrown back in release, the muscles of his neck taut, with a single drop of blood making it way down, over his heart, teasing his nipple, was burned into his mind like a red-hot brand, bringing with its memory a phantom pain whenever he recalled it. Yukimura's perfectly shaped lips, stained crimson, had smirked at him knowingly. Yet those dark eyes, glimmering above Fuji's shoulder, were not unkind as they met Tezuka's; they might even have held a question, although what it was Tezuka could not guess.

His world changed, but Fuji did not. Four centuries were time enough for the world to morph into something completely unrecognizable to Tezuka. But throughout it all Fuji remained a constant, their hunt and chase connecting them like a thread through time and space. And sometimes, Tezuka wondered if that was why Fuji did not kill him. Hunted him, but never killed him, because what they had between them -- whatever it might be -- was the only thing left that bound both of them, however tenuously, to a semblance of life.


	3. Yukimura Seiichi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third up: Yukimura. 1,552 words. Please remember the warnings: dark themes, violence, adult situation, the works. This part was originally subtitled "Shades of the Past" – shades as in shadowed places and ghosts, yes.

**Kiss from a Rose: Yukimura Seiichi**

[June 2005 :: Posted July 2013]

_There used to be a greying tower alone on the sea.  
You became the light on the dark side of me._

 

The first thing Yukimura noticed about Fuji was his eyes. Even as a mortal, Fuji had unforgettable eyes – more azure than the waters of Mediterranean, the shade even and spotless as the cloudless autumn sky. Those eyes were magnetic under the flickering torchlight. Yukimura remembered standing in the shadows between columns, transfixed, as if Fuji, not he, were the vampire.

When they first met Fuji was a young man just beginning to blossom. Yet his eyes were ageless even then. Yukimura watched him with the fascination of a gardener over a particularly well-formed blossom, not once entertaining the thought of making Fuji his own. He had never made any mortal his own that way then, sharing immortal blood to stopper mortal death. He was simply drawn to the beauty of Fuji's eyes, the grace of his movements, and the rare brilliance of his spirit. Yukimura watched Fuji whisper secret things, sinful things to a beautiful young woman, her pure white tunic barely stifled under her dark cloak and the cover of the night. The young woman's rich brown hair was glossy, free of the usual constricting braids, her brown eyes dark and depthless, skin alight with life and passion. Her tall figure encased in dark cloak was striking in the mist as she stole away before the first light, back to her holy prison. They were siblings by marriage, Fuji and his young woman, although looking at the resemblance around their perfectly formed mouths, the arch of brows and straightness of the nose, Yukimura suspected a blood-relation the two might have known themselves.

Fuji had an image of her fashioned in marble by a Greek sculptor Yukimura introduced. As the marble gave way to the smoothness of her features, Yukimura often caught Fuji looking at the image, longing and pain in his eyes. Just before the base was inscribed with dedication, a human disaster struck the brother and the sister. Someone had accused her of taking a lover, and she was condemned for breaking her vow to the immortal virgin she served. Yukimura thought it another case of mortal foolishness, unfortunate that it would take as its victim such a charming creature, but inevitable, for those with sights as dim as the night about them.

She never revealed the name of her lover.

Partly out of pity and partly from respect, Yukimura helped Fuji see the young woman one last time before her sentence was carried out. Just before dawn, when Yukimura gently led Fuji away, with her eyes shimmering with a kind of devotion and strength Yukimura had never seen in a mortal, she said with conviction: _Live, brother. Live for me._

By that time Yukimura was powerful enough to brave the sunlight, at least in the shelter of shadows. From the shades, he watched Fuji watching his sister being entombed alive, with a little bit of water and bread so her hallowed body would not be subject to the horror of starvation. No guards touched her as she, unflinching, descended the steps to her unhallowed grave, her person still inviolate, untouchable. And she had never looked more beautiful than now, cloaked only in her steadfast dignity and pride. Yet it was Fuji's suffering that drew Yukimura's eyes. The boy's face was as pale as death, the blue eyes wide and staring, fractured in a pain he could not even begin to fathom. And Fuji stood so still, so perfectly still, not even a tremor betraying whatever he was feeling inside. At that moment, Yukimura couldn't help but see Fuji as a sapling, a young yearling of a shoot that knew the oncoming storm would mercilessly break it in half, yet stood in defiance, acceptance or both. There was a kind of unparalleled strength and brilliance to his pain, something that made him bright and sharp and dangerous. The allure of Fuji's presence, that wildness raging behind that frozen stillness, was so overpowering that Yukimura nearly lost his control and took him there and then.

That night, Yukimura went to Fuji. And seeing the sharpness of the blue gaze undiminished even by the consuming agony behind them, Yukimura gave him the choice. Fuji never told him why he accepted Yukimura's offer, but Yukimura had his guesses. It was the young Vestal's mortal brother who loved her, but it was the immortal who was once her brother that inscribed and dedicated the statue. The mortal boy had a poetic epithet prepared for the likeness of his sister. The immortal that was left behind inscribed but two words: Lucilla Pulcheria.

The way Fuji yielded to him was intoxicating, all wiry strength that pushed and pushed, then suddenly melting under his hands. Fuji was irrevocably, unquestionably his, and for a long time Yukimura never thought he would have another that would fascinate him as much as Fuji did. But in the distant islands in the East, Yukimura did find a mortal that entranced him even more than Fuji did. And this man, unlike all others Yukimura had ever known, learned his nature and his secrets yet accepted and embraced all he was. Fuji had agreed to be Yukimura's for his own reasons, but Sanada was his simply by choice. Such trust and willingness from one so strong and proud was a heady rapture.

Never in his wildest dreams did it occur to Yukimura that he would need to guard himself and his heart from Fuji. Yukimura had never thought to hide what he felt, what he thought, from his first (and then only) childe. Thus it came as an appalling attack, one that penetrated his heart with sickening precision, when Fuji went against his explicit wish and turned Sanada. It was his fault, he supposed, that he lost control and drained Sanada nearly to the point of death. However, out of respect for the first and only mortal who had given him his heart willingly and without hesitation, Yukimura had promised not to turn him, even if he were to lose Sanada to death. And Fuji knew this better than anyone when he slipped inside Sanada's room and offered his immortal blood. Had he not known that Sanada must had chosen to accept, that Sanada was content with his own choice, Yukimura could not guess what he might have done to Fuji.

It was only after he found himself so deeply in love that he began to notice what he never felt the need to see before, about Fuji, about himself, and about the human world. He had reached out to Fuji in what amounted to a selfish reason. He'd wanted to keep Fuji exactly the way he was forever, as beautiful and brilliant and dangerous as that moment the earth closed over the young Vestal. But Fuji was not Yukimura, and had accepted the immortality and its sins differently than Yukimura had. Sanada, too, had been a miscalculation, at least as far as Fuji was concerned. In his assurance that he knew his childe's every thought, Yukimura had missed what was in Fuji's heart. Once Yukimura began paying attention to him, not as an extension of himself but as _Fuji_ , he began to see what might have been the fatal mistake for both of them. And a part of him began to regret, not that he made Fuji his own, but how it happened and why. Fuji's needs were different from his, and he had never imagined Fuji's needs might include something he would never think of giving.

Perhaps that was why a part of him was relieved when he saw Tezuka for the first time. Another part of him, however, was inches away from erasing Tezuka's existence for good. Fuji never responded to him that way, not with that passionate gleam of life, that burning attraction, that aching desire. Perhaps it was jealousy that made him lure Tezuka to watch as he took Fuji, taking Fuji's body as well as his veiled heart, leaving it bare, and have Tezuka witness every heartbeat of their wild movements. Perhaps it was because he wanted to be able to entrust Tezuka with his childe, one that meant more to him than the waking world, second only to Sanada. But for that Tezuka had to know the full depth of Fuji's soul, understand it, and taste its hidden sweetness and the underlying bitterness, everything. Only then could Tezuka hope to hold Fuji, hold and not hurt, and maybe, just maybe, even protect Fuji.

Perhaps the greatest irony was that what Yukimura hoped Tezuka would be able to protect Fuji from was Fuji himself, one that was Yukimura's own making. Like ashes in his mouth, difficult to swallow, to know there were parts of Fuji he could no longer protect or even touch, parts that were no longer his, even if he was their origin and parent. But Tezuka...Tezuka could, without trying or possibly even without knowing. Tezuka could, and it was all that mattered. So Yukimura watched, entwined in Sanada, in Fuji, in Tezuka, in Yuuta, in Echizen, in everything Fuji had touched and had touched Fuji and shaped Fuji as much as Fuji shaped them. As the world around them shifted and changed, Yukimura did not, nor did his silent vigil over his childe, centuries stretching into millennia.

Time was, after all, all he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Note:_** This series was originally written in 2005, and even then, with more florid language than I generally favor. Upon rethinking it this year, I left them largely alone.
> 
> All names here are assumed names (with possible exception of Ryoma). Fuji is originally from Rome, from late Republic or early principate. Mention of white clothing and braids was a hint for a Vestal virgin, who wore white wool and special braided hairdo called _seni crines_. Vestal virgins were extremely important to Roman culture and were accorded great honors and privileges during their term (30 years), but if found guilty of breaking their vow (which was rare), they were put to death. The lover, if exposed, was also executed.
> 
> Lucilla Pulcheria can be translated as "beautiful light."


	4. Fuji Yuuta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth in the series is Yuuta, in 957 words. This part was the main reason I did not want to release this arc. Sort-of-incest, implied underage & adult situations, really dark themes. You've been warned. Originally subtitled "Paradise Lost."

****

**Kiss from a Rose: Fuji Yuuta**

[September 2005 :: Posted December 1st, 2013]

_But did you know that when it snows_  
 _My eyes become large and_  
 _The light that you shine can be seen._

 

Yuuta vividly remembered the first time he met Syuusuke. The first thing that caught his eyes, unlike many others would say, was not the unforgettable blue eyes, but the pale, smooth skin that seemed to glow in the moonlight. Yuuta had always been fond of clear white skin, and perhaps it was natural that Syuusuke's skin would catch his attention first. Yuuta still remembered the first cool touch of that white skin – cold like Hymettian marble and just as alluring.

And Yuuta loved the way Syuusuke's skin became suffused with warmth after drinking from him, in a flush of borrowed warmth, like marble warmed by the sun. The thought pleased his young mind, because the childish analogy then was yet so fitting. Syuusuke was beautiful and poetic and everything he had ever dreamed of in the darkness of the night, in the embrace of sleep. Yuuta knew from the moment he saw Syuusuke what he wanted: for the two of them to be together forever, his gentle sun warming Syuusuke's cool marble, infusing life in Syuusuke's veins. And Syuusuke would be his in a way he was to no one else. Such were his childish thoughts at the age of fifteen.

By the time Yuuta turned nineteen, Syuusuke had become a regular feature in his life. They were connected by blood, albeit distantly, and jokingly Yuuta called Syuusuke his older brother, fashioning another invisible tie that bound them together. Yuuta could no longer remember what his life was like before Syuusuke. He knew he wanted Syuusuke to stay in it forever. It was only natural, therefore, that he accepted Syuusuke's invitation. To be with Syuusuke was all he ever wanted. A child's mind was simple, and thought only in simple terms.

Except reality didn't work that way.

Becoming a vampire was much like being thrown into the middle of an ocean, amidst the freezing waves, with the simple ultimatum to sink or swim. With no one to help him get to the shore. No one so much as glanced in his direction while he screamed and thrashed and struggled against the merciless elements. No one cared or even heard.

And for the first time since they met, Syuusuke simply wasn't there. Syuusuke wasn't there as he struggled with his fear and self-loathing and hatred and anger and paralyzing terror. Syuusuke wasn't there.

Doubt entered his mind then, and took root. And once it took hold it never, ever left. On bitterest nights Yuuta wondered whether Syuusuke had only wanted a conquest. Once he gave in to Syuusuke, of course Syuusuke lost interest – why pursue a prey already in his clutches? Maybe all Syuusuke wanted was to see how much Yuuta would give, how far he would go, how deeply he would trust. Well, Syuusuke knew the answer now.

But that wasn't why Yuuta hated Syuusuke.

What made Yuuta hate Syuusuke was the way Syuusuke looked at him, with something too close to pity, a mixture of regret and longing, and worse still, guilt. Syuusuke looked at him as if he felt _sorry_ for what Yuuta had become.

Sorry for the choices Yuuta made for Syuusuke's sake. Sorry for what was lost because of those choices. Sorry for a pathetic little boy who believed in fairytales too much, and in the end let himself be destroyed for his faith. Sorry for everything that was now gone and could never return.

Syuusuke's eyes never saw Yuuta. His eyes were always focused elsewhere, lost somewhere Yuuta couldn't follow, could not even intrude. Oh, Yuuta new he could hurt Syuusuke. Badly, if he chose. But every time he lashed out to hurt Syuusuke, Syuusuke only looked at him with those eyes full of pity, regret, and sorrow. And that was when Yuuta hated him with every fiber of his being. Because Syuusuke never saw him, had perhaps never seen him. Syuusuke only ever saw what _he_ wanted in Yuuta: a prize in life, a lost ideal in death. Thus for Yuuta his mortal death had become his final death. Nothing he did could ever make 'Yuuta' come alive for Syuusuke. Nothing he did could make Syuusuke see him as he was. Yuuta was beginning to resign himself Syuusuke never would.

So Yuuta slept with Syuusuke, asked Syuusuke to fuck him harder, and laughed at Syuusuke's unspoken pain, so stark in those deep blue eyes. The sex (Yuuta never called it lovemaking, for obvious reasons) was always violent and fast between them, but Yuuta made a point of taking Syuusuke to bed every time they saw each other. If he had to deal with Syuusuke never truly seeing him, he would not allow Syuusuke to ignore his existence on top of that. Because each time he drank from Syuusuke, even as Syuusuke's eyes turned distant, the blood flowing between them connected them in a way their bodies alone never could.

Syuusuke never drank from him. Not since he turned Yuuta.

When Yuuta held Syuusuke after sex, it was with want and need and hatred and despair. And so much loneliness that it had long since crushed his heart to a shriveled mass of muscles no longer capable of anything but giving blood to a consuming obsession that replaced his soul. Because Syuusuke would not see. And Yuuta couldn't make him see.

So Yuuta held Syuusuke with strength that would strangle a mortal, because Syuusuke's body was the only thing he could hold, because Syuusuke allowed him nothing else. Because if there ever was anything resembling love between them, it had long since died and rotted away, like that foolish little boy playing in the sun, darting between the sun-warmed marble columns.

And sometimes, just sometimes, Yuuta thought he even missed that boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuta (assumed name, to reiterate) originally hails from Renaissance Italy. This part was rather troublesome to me personally, but for the sake of continuity, I left it in.


	5. Sanada Genichirou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fifth in the series: Sanada. 1,491 words. Adult content warning for this part.

****

**Kiss from a Rose: Sanada Genichirou**

[November 2005 :: Posted December 26, 2013]

_Love remained a drug that's the high and not the pill._  
 _...I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the grey._

 

The blade descended, cutting through the air in a deadly arc. The cold gleam of the steel was precise, controlled, a flash of lightning in the night's gloom. If he strained, he could almost hear the roar of the cascading water, the frigid water soaking his clothes, chilling his skin, the cool autumn air on his skin. The red dragonfly and red maple leaves, the black of the bark. And the heather-gray eyes the color of sky during a thunderstorm.

He stilled.

When he glanced at the doorway, it was empty, as he knew it would be; Yukimura knew better than to disturb him when he was practicing with his katana. Yet the memory of those eyes fastened on him, watching his every movement, never failed to arrest his attention. The soul behind those eyes never faltered, was never unsure, throughout the thousand years that he had known it.

It thrilled him. It scared him. He had given his own soul willingly all the same. He had never regretted since.

A cool presence brushed against the edge of his consciousness. It was distinct from Yukimura's, which was how he could always pick it out; it was swift and light and dangerous. Like Suzuki grass, this one -- sharp enough to cut even as it bent in the wind. And he had known him for almost as long as he'd known Yukimura. Only, unlike Yukimura, this one was a puzzle to him even after a thousand years.

The blade rose again, moving so slowly that stillness seemed to shroud its movements, and he began the next set of kata. Despite his best effort, however, his mind wandered, taking him back to the Heian court, where he was formally introduced to Yukimura, a month after their first meeting. Yukimura, only in attendance on cloudy days, was soft spoken, mysterious, charming, but strangely difficult to approach. But Yukimura favored his company and made no secret of it from the first day, when he challenged Sanada to a game of igo. He'd looked up from the goban to see intent eyes studying him, the same color mirrored in the sky as the first streaks of lightning began to flash through the clouds.

He had never been one for self-deception. Of course he realized his fascination went deeper than simple attraction. Nor had he hesitated to make his suit known to Yukimura. He remained undeterred even when he found out what Yukimura truly was, but then again, Yukimura had a unique ability to make any situation seem as if nothing at all was out of ordinary. He had fallen in love with Yukimura, wanted all that Yukimura was, and for it, he was ready to give all that he was. Certainty was his nature as it was water's nature to reflect the moon.

Around the same time, he was introduced to Yukimura's first and only childe, who eyes were as cool and blue as the autumn sky. Fuji intrigued him precisely because he could read nothing from him, and he'd never before met an opponent he could not read. Fuji wasn't antagonistic, exactly, but there was a sense of distance, like a wall of ice sprung between them. While seeming transparent, it nevertheless distorted the image of whatever was within, hid it from the view all the same. But Fuji was important to Yukimura, he could see that plainly, and so he accepted Fuji's presence as he'd accepted everything else.

It was not long after he first slept with Yukimura when drinking of the blood became part of the ritual. It had been a natural extension; Sanada would not have accepted Yukimura into his bed had he not been prepared to accept everything of Yukimura. His blood seemed to have a noticeably potent effect on Yukimura, and it secretly pleased him, that only _he_ could affect Yukimura so. Indeed, when he drank from Sanada, Yukimura seemed almost drunk with a kind of ecstasy that turned his usually impeccable control into fine dust blown away in the wind. Perhaps it should have been expected all along, that the loss of control would eventually push Yukimura to go further than Yukimura was willing.

The idea of being Yukimura's for all eternity had never once bothered Sanada. But Yukimura had drawn the line, saying he did not wish to bind Sanada to him for selfish reasons. Sanada had respected Yukimura's will.

Or had he? Had he actually wanted Yukimura to go against his own words, and had encouraged Yukimura -- subtly -- to lose control? To this day, he was not sure. What he did know was that when Fuji stole into his room and offered the choice, he did not need to consider even for a moment. Locked in Fuji's arms, as the pain and pleasure gripped him, he wondered how long he had wanted this to happen. He wondered, guiltily, whether Yukimura's initial decision had felt too much like rejection in his mind, and just maybe, he had been pushing the whole time to override that. Yukimura already has Fuji at his side: did Yukimura simply not need another childe? Was Fuji something Yukimura wanted to keep all eternity, but not Sanada? Try as he might, he could not deny that doubt had plagued his mind at times, despite Yukimura's numerous assurances. He knew Fuji knew about this -- Fuji never passed up an opportunity to needle him.

It was only after he was turned that he realized the complexity of the relationship between Yukimura and Fuji. For a while he refused to have anything to do with it; he tolerated the fact Yukimura slept with Fuji on a regular basis despite their otherwise exclusive relationship. But more, he would not do. It was only after Fuji seduced him that he felt the full extent of seductive powers that Fuji possessed and wielded on others with deadly accuracy. It was only after centuries that it occurred to him to question his own motivations for sleeping with Fuji.

There had been a vague curiosity. There had been undeniable attraction, at least on some level. Perhaps he wanted to level the playing field. Or perhaps it was a way of restoring balance among the three of them. Whatever it was, he felt more or less justified in his decision for their first time. But what about the times after, stretching throughout centuries until the present?

 _Are you jealous?_ Fuji always asked him in his mind whenever he found Yukimura in Fuji's bed, just before inviting him to join in. Sanada never answered the question, but never turned down the invitation, either. Jealous? Maybe. But of whom, of what?

The blade faltered. Sanada glanced at the door again, and started when he realized Fuji was there, watching him. There were no words, and seconds stretches into minutes, and he lowered the katana. Fuji crossed the dojo as soundlessly as a ghost, and even before Fuji reached for him, he was pulling Fuji closer, the sharp blade still in his hand. They had sex, and sparred, and had sex again. Fuji was fast as hell, and he always ended up with numerous shallow cuts all over him. Fuji's mouth was stinging and soothing and arousing at the same time, tracing each cut with eager tongue and languid hands. Fuji was sweet on his tongue as he fucked him roughly, right there on the dojo floor, the soft brown hair spread on the wood like a halo, drops of moon caught in the fine strands. The cerulean eyes never failed to steal his breath, first at half-mast, and then wide and unseeing. After they finished, Fuji stirred not long after, signaling for Sanada to withdraw and release him. Sanada particularly enjoyed staying inside Fuji after they finished, but Fuji always pulled away.

Instead of letting him go, Sanada pressed his weight down, hands tightening their grips, and heard a faint hiss from under him. He was about to nip at Fuji's throat when he found himself flung backward and land hard on his back on the wooden floor. Fuji loomed over him with a look of warning, and Sanada, unexpectedly even to himself, smirked, the challenge clear in his eyes. Fuji narrowed his eyes, and at any other time, would have taken him up on the offer. But Fuji stepped back gracefully, completely unconcerned about the state of his undress, and turned to leave. Fuji's feet made no sound as he left the room, and Sanada did not watch him go, staring at the ceiling.

Sanada loving Yukimura was simple. Yukimura needing Sanada was simple. Yukimura being with Fuji was not simple. Sanada wanting Fuji was not simple. Fuji was never simple. Sanada closed his eyes.

The light of the full moon caught the blade, a glint suspended in the moment, brilliance captured in an instant, surrounded by the stretch of a millennium. Then the light passed, and everything was still again.


	6. Echizen Ryoma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sixth and last of the series is Ryoma, in 1,560 words. Adult content warning at, er, a higher level than before? Original subtitle was "My darling, I only dreamt this," from "Robber Bridegroom" in the Grimm's fairytale collection.

****

**Kiss from a Rose: Echizen Ryoma**

[November 2005 :: Posted December 30, 2013]

 

_The more I get of you, stranger it feels_  
 _And now that your rose is in bloom_  
 _A light hits the gloom on the grey..._

 

Dreams. Fairytales. Nightmares.

Ryoma knew the moment he laid his eyes on him that Fuji was made of the very stuff of nightmares. In the nightclub, between the stifling heat and throbbing music, the cold smell of earth and rain that clung to Fuji was startling. And he was suddenly wide awake, his senses focused wholly on Fuji for the duration of the night, until Fuji left the club in the wee hours of the morning. As if compelled by a force beyond his control, Ryoma followed.

The winter sky was still dark when Ryoma caught up with him in a park, standing pensively before a frozen fountain. Fuji did not acknowledge him for a long moment, until the sky turned pale lavender. When Fuji did turn to glance his way, his had the strangest expression -- not a smile or a frown, unidentifiable and out of place yet just right for his face. He blinked and suddenly Fuji was gone, and Ryoma remained in place until the sun rose and spread its golden rays over the park.

For the next week, Ryoma went to the same club every night, unconsciously searching for the blue eyes that seemed to stare into his soul in every dream. The days and nights went by like fever-induced dreams, and Ryoma was unaware of time passing. His time had stopped with those eyes, and he waited, and waited.

A week later, he saw Fuji again in the club, and Ryoma started, the shock of the blue eyes like icy water. Fuji was sitting half in shadows, unobtrusive, as if he had always been part of his surroundings. Before he even realized, Ryoma was already on his feet, crossing the dance floor. Fuji did not look up as Ryoma approached.

"...Hi," Ryoma said after full ten seconds of silence. Fuji looked up at him with a small smile of mild inquiry. Seconds ticked by, but Fuji remained patient, and finally Ryoma finished, "Do you want to dance?"

Fuji blinked, and smiled a little wider. "I'm sure you could find a better partner than someone like me."

"Yeah, probably," Ryoma agreed casually, and Fuji tilted his head, lips twitching lightly. "So, you want to?"

"All right." Fuji rose with preternatural grace, and Ryoma caught his breath when Fuji pulled him close, leading him to the dance floor. Fuji danced well. Too well. His movements were too precise, too controlled, too perfect. After another turn, Ryoma grabbed Fuji and pulled him close.

"Like you mean it," he said simply, and let go. Fuji smiled at him. Next moment, Ryoma found himself caught in Fuji's arms in a fluid, graceful movement, and swept up in the torrent of rhythm and drive of music. Ryoma did not remember how the dance went; the only thing he was aware of the whole time was Fuji's scent, the chill of Fuji's hand on his skin, and the blue eyes, azure touched with flecks of gold. When they finished and went off the dance floor, ignoring the applauses and admiring glances, Ryoma merely commented, "You're not bad."

Fuji laughed. "Likewise."

Ryoma dragged a hand through his hair. "Do you want to go somewhere else?" Fuji merely smiled a fraction wider, and Ryoma took his cold hand and led them away. When the hotel room door closed and locked behind them, Fuji looked at him with a mild inquiry in his eyes.

"Are you sure you know what you're getting into?"

"Probably not," Ryoma said carelessly, pulling the tight shirt over his head and flinging it in the general direction of the chair. "Well?"

Fuji studied him for a moment, then stepped closer to the bed, holding out a hand in invitation. Ryoma climbed on the bed and lay back as Fuji crawled over him. Their eyes locked for a long moment, and the chill of Fuji's first touch and the taste of blood in his mouth made him start. Fuji drew back with a strange sort of smile that a cat might give to a cornered mouse, and Ryoma returned the look evenly, reaching up to trace Fuji's lower lip with his tongue. Inside Fuji's mouth, Ryoma immediately cut his tongue on the sharp incisors, but did not draw back, hearing a faint purr in Fuji's throat. With a movement too quick for eyes, Fuji had Ryoma pinned by the wrists, and started kissing and biting Ryoma's bare skin in earnest, and Ryoma moaned, tipping his head back, offering, and a moment later, he felt sharp teeth scrape against his throat. The sharpness pressed closer and Ryoma gasped in pain and shivered, morbidly fascinated by the pressure of Fuji's lips closing tightly around the wound. Fuji's hands caressed his chest, teasing his nipples and tracing his stomach, pulling his attention away from the soreness and discomfort of his throat, and Ryoma moaned, fingers digging into Fuji's back. He was not sure how Fuji managed to get his pants and underwear off so quickly, but decided he didn't really care as Fuji settled between his legs. Ryoma liked it rough perfectly fine, and shoved down to make his point when Fuji's fingers pressed inside him, and heard low, breathless chuckle that sent shivers down his spine. Fuji fucked him rough and fast and just when Ryoma thought he couldn't take any more, he felt Fuji's mouth on his throat again, and this time he screamed at the initial pain of the fangs sinking into his flesh with purposeful mastery. The pain did not pass, or at least, he could not tell if it had, but Fuji surged into him and the pain blended and bled into pleasure, hot and raw and overwhelming, until he was screaming, for Fuji to stop or to fuck him harder, he didn't know.

For an endless moment the entire world went white, and the next instant Ryoma was aware of his body again, aching and cold, and so very tired. Gray dots danced in his vision and he closed his eyes for a moment, but found it did not help. Ryoma did not bother trying to move when Fuji lovingly licked the bite mark and sat back, watching him with half-lidded eyes. Fuji's cheeks were tinged with color, and his entire body seemed to glow with sudden warmth.

"That..." Ryoma drawled tiredly. "...Hurt." The hooded look on Fuji's face lifted, and for a moment the blue eyes were clear as the autumn sky. Fuji smiled at him.

"You're lucky to have survived the experience, you know." His voice was rich with amusement, and Ryoma blinked again to clear his vision, then gave it up as a lost cause. Ryoma felt the bed dip when Fuji rose, and closed his eyes tiredly. There was a rustle of fabric, and Fuji pulled up the sheet to cover him, wrapping him snugly in the comforter. "I wonder if you will be so lucky next time?"

Ryoma yawned, but managed to open his eyes. "We could find out. Next time." Fuji's eyes became hard as glass, and the golden flecks in his eyes were like glitter of the stars in the cerulean sky. A warm, supple hand closed around Ryoma's throat, and Ryoma just looked at Fuji, not reacting as the hand squeezed tighter.

"You're quite beautiful," Fuji said conversationally. Ryoma was dizzy, his vision darkening around the edges, and he had to fight to keep his consciousness. "Death would love to have you as a paramour. He could take you this very night."

"But not tonight," Ryoma rasped. His heart was hammering, either from fear or the lack of air, but Ryoma felt alive as he never had since his father died three years ago. He kept his eyes fixed on Fuji's, until Fuji smiled a slow smile.

"You're right." The pressure on his throat eased just a little, Fuji leaned down to kiss him, sharp teeth cutting Ryoma's lips in the process. Fuji licked the blood away and brushed his hair back, looking into his eyes. "Next time."

Then the pressure on his neck was abruptly gone, and Ryoma blinked. The air rushing into his lungs disoriented him for a brief moment, but by the time he was aware of his surroundings again, there was no trace of Fuji in the room. The tick of the clock was loud in the silence, and Ryoma closed his eyes, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

In the game of cat and mouse he played with Fuji, he never knew exactly how close he was to true danger; he always knew it was very close. It did not matter. One only lost what one chose to stake in a game. And _he_ was always the one who set the stakes in their game. That was why Ryoma enjoyed his games with Fuji, reveled in pushing the limits as far as he could. His father had trapped him in a game where he, as an unwilling player and participant, had no hand in the rules or the stakes, or could define what constituted a win or a loss. He trapped Fuji in a different game, and suspected Fuji knew exactly what he was doing -- a toy toying with its master even as the master played with it. It did not matter.

In this game, there were no winners or losers -- only victims.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oddly enough, I don't particularly like vampire stories. Odder still, I'm in the process of finishing another TeniPuri vampire AU, although that one is vastly different from this series. (For one, that one is over 50K.) I don't remember how and why I picked Seal's "Kiss from a Rose" as the theme for this one, but the entire idea coalesced in my head while I was listening to the song. My first-ever image concerning this story was Tezuka and Fuji facing off each other in this dark, shadowed Gothic building, possibly a church courtyard, with a graveyard next to them. Everything was in black and white, and there were black roses blooming on the graves. That image was powerful enough to inspire a world of its own, back in 2005. Since it was supposed to be Gothic horror, I'd used more florid, purple prose than my usual. Upon re-reading this year, I decided the language is partly what makes this series tick, so quite unlike most of my other stories, this one was left largely alone. Some minor edits for continuity's sake, and that's about it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the ride. I did – though it remains to be seen if I'll still respect myself tomorrow morning. ;)


End file.
